045

A/N: Update on my exam—for those who gives a damn—5As and still counting with one fail for that one subject I swore not to take this year but my parents made me.😃 I did pretty good for someone who scanned through the textbooks at the last second.

P.S. My friends don't trust me now because I told them I'm fucked before. Wild how they crashed out trying to teach my dumb ahh who always daydream in class before the exam, gave up, studied myself, got higher scores than them.👍

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The airplane glided smoothly down from the clouds, its shadow stretching over the tarmac as the wheels extended and met the ground with a screeching kiss.

The landing was graceful, practiced, and final.

The airport’s buzz was as lively as ever—announcements echoing, families reuniting, businessmen pacing briskly—but amidst the ordinary, something unusual stepped onto Yokohama’s soil.

Two pairs of feet touched down. The first, confident and deliberate. The second, hurried, almost stumbling.

A soft, melodic whistle sliced through the ambient noise—a tune foreign, lilting, and oddly nostalgic.

The man in front, now stepping into the arrival terminal, tilted his head upward, inhaling slowly through his nose with a smile stretching across his lips.

"As expected," he murmured, lifting his sunglasses with the elegance of a movie star, "Yokohama’s air smells the best."

『L/N Y/N (20 years old)』Ability: 幽玄の帳 (Yūgen no Tobari) — Curtain of Profound MysteryPosition: Executive

"Let’s get going now, love," you said, your voice rich and calm as if returning home from a long vacation.

You didn't glance back as you began walking.

"Y-Yes, sir!!" the young man behind you staggered forward.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in two days, dark circles under his eyes and posture slouched, burdened by the two large luggages in either hand.

You, of course, carried nothing. Except style.

Back in the depths of the Port Mafia headquarters, a different scene was brewing.

"Dazai-kun."

The voice was formal and calm. An elderly man stood in the hallway, upright with his hands folded neatly behind him.

The man in black standing near the wide hallway windows turned slowly, his brown eyes slightly narrowed with fatigue but glinting with interest.

"Hirotsu-san," Dazai said, softly, lips curving in an unreadable smile. "What brings you here? I thought you preferred peace and quiet."

"I heard of something that may please you. I thought I should let you know."

"Oh?" Dazai cocked his head slightly, feigning curiosity. "What is it?"

Hirotsu met his eyes. The words spilling from his mouth.

The air cooled. Dazai’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes froze over like a lake in winter.

"How boring," he replied, turning his back to Hirotsu again. "You don’t understand me at all, do you, Hirotsu-san?"

The older man said nothing. His silence, however, was heavy.

Even if Dazai denied it, he knew the truth.

The one who missed "him" the most isn't Mori, not Kouyou, not Chuuya, not his subordinates—but Dazai.

The inside of the car Boss sent for us was too luxurious for a low level grunt like me.

Velvet seats, polished paneling, a scent so clean it made my nose twitch—like being wrapped in money and old power.

I sat stiffly in the backseat beside him.

I say sat, but really, I was barely holding myself together.

L/N-san—the Boss' treasured executive—was beside me, his head leaned back against the leather, eyes closed, a small content smile resting on his lips.

Like some damned angel of death enjoying a spa day.

It was eerie how peaceful he looked.

Meanwhile, I felt like I was going to die.

Not physically—I knew he wouldn’t kill me for no reason. He never needed me on the battlefield, made that very clear from the start.

“You? With me? On missions?” he had chuckled, long ago.

“Darling, the only role you have is to keep up and not get killed. Anything more and I’d have to replace you.”

Mentally, however? Torture. Pure and exquisite torment.

Three years. Three years abroad with him.

Not once did he raise a hand to me. Not once did he throw me into danger or give me more than I could do.

But every single day was like walking on glass barefoot. Emotional whiplash was a constant.

My torment was the games. The boredom induced, sanity erasing games.

L/N-san, for all his godlike aura and terrifying mind, got bored easily. And when he got bored, he played. Not with weapons. With words.

“Ren, if I disappeared tomorrow, would you miss me?”

“U-Uh, of course, sir.”

“Really? Even though I made you walk 12 kilometers yesterday because I wanted to try a donut I read about in a dead man’s blog?”

He’d laugh. I wouldn’t.

The food obsession was hell. Every country, every city, he’d drag me through dozens of food shops. Buy enough for a starving family. Taste it once and if it's good, he'll at least finish it.

But, if it's bad... he'll throw the rest of the food to me like I'm some pitiable, starving stray dog begging for scraps.

And souvenirs? None. Not a single one.

He didn’t care for things. Only sensations.

Then there were days he’d just stare at me.

Not maliciously. Just...study me. Tilt his head like a cat watching a bug twitch. Ask questions like:

“Do you ever feel like you're not real, Ren? Like you're just a thought in someone else's story?”

Who the hell says that to their subordinate at 3 am in a French alleyway?

I peeked sideways.

His breathing was steady. His expression unbothered. His long fingers rested delicately on his lap.

He looked... home.

And that scared me.

I knew enough about the mafia to know what that meant. If this was where he felt most alive, then everyone else was in for hell.

The car slowed. We were nearing the headquarters.

My hands tightened around the handle of his luggage.

He cracked an eye open and smiled.

"Ren."

My heart jumped.

"Y-Yes, sir?"

"Are you nervous?"

I swallowed. "A little. It’s... It’s been a while."

"Mm," he hummed. "It has. Three years. I wonder if anything's changed."

"I-I’m sure they missed you, sir."

He chuckled. A soft, low sound.

"Oh, they did. Some more than others. Some… not at all."

He turned his gaze to the window. His reflection caught the light just so—his eyes looked molten, yet empty.

"But I’m back now."

The car stopped.

Outside, two port mafia members stood waiting, backs straight. They opened the doors the moment the driver turned off the engine.

L/N-san stepped out first, like royalty.

I followed, dragging the luggages like a mule.

One of the members bowed. "Welcome back, L/N-sama. The Boss is waiting in his office."

L/N-san didn’t respond. Just smiled and walked past them like a ghost.

I trudged behind, trying not to trip on the stone path.

And for a moment, I felt a chill travel down my spine.

Because the moment we crossed the gates, I saw a figure on the upper balcony.

A familiar black coat.

Brown hair.

And eyes, cold and watching.

Dazai Osamu, L/N-san's apprentice whom I heard has become an executive—the youngest executive, to be precise—not long after we left.

It really increases my respect for L/N-san—for both him and his student to achieve such a feat—though, that respect decreases the moment I remember what I went through...

L/N-san didn’t look up.

But I knew he felt it.

The air had changed.

Yokohama had its devil back.

And everyone was about to remember why they feared him.